


Pale Gamkar Month 2015

by emcapi



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Pale Gamkar Month 2015, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-20 21:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3666654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emcapi/pseuds/emcapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A drabble a day keeps the haters away!”<br/>Collection of drabbles/minifics for the first Pale Gamkar Month because moirallegiance is my favorite quadrant and my writing skills need a chance to stretch their legs. Mostly based on canon with a few full-blown AU's thrown in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: First Pile

None of you quite know what to do with yourselves as the Green Sun fades out of view, turning into a speck slowly eclipsed by assorted fetid masses of tentacles. It's hardly been an hour and the adrenaline rushes have worn off, leaving only numb, cold shock.

Half of you are dead, two of the killers are riding along with you, and you're currently in no state to friendlead anybody because suddenly you've got to come to terms with the fact that you're stuck on this meteor for three fucking years and did you mention _half your friends are fucking dead._

As everyone had made their way into the laboratories, you had slipped off to find a corner to curl up in and pull yourself together, somewhere deep in your own section of the labs. (Hunched up like this, you remind yourself of the roller-beetles that curl into a ball when you gingerly poke them with a claw or a stick. You briefly imagine some embodiment of paradox space, a billion times bigger than you, watching you and your miserable life trundling on by and poking it with a claw the size of the meteor, entertained enough by your reaction that it doesn't squash you.) _Just five more minutes_ , you tell yourself, _are five more godforsaken minutes too much to ask for, just five more minutes and I'll go back to them._ (You know that you're lying to yourself, but sometime in the past few hours you have well and truly run out of fucks to give. Paradox space has jammed its oversize claw up into your thinkpan and meticulously extracted every single fuck through your sniffnodes.)

A distant, metallic bang echoes from somewhere deep in the bowels of the meteor, and you jump, still wary, startled into alert mode once again. Not a minute later, the cover of the vent opposite you CLANG!s to the ground.

You will swear on pain of death that you did not by any means shriek like a wiggler.

The head that pops out does little to assuage your fear, because the face is a nightmarish disaster zone of smudged facepaint, half-scabbed, oozing gashes, and dried flecks of olive blood. You can't even begin to fathom how he got here. The lanky asshole somehow manages to roll over while still in the vent, shooting you an upside-down, lazy grin, as relaxed as ever. “Heyyyy there, motherfuckin' best bro,” he drawls, soft and easy.

Your pale crush the size of the pink moon wins out over your fear, and you give an exasperated sigh, unfurl yourself from your Karkat-ball of misery and despair, and march over to haul your clown's ass out of the vent. “Get your fat ass out of there, Gamzee, we need to talk,” you snap at him, defaulting to your standard angry bravado, as you reach into the vent to grab him by the shoulders and pull him out. He laughs at that, low and honking, as he gets to his feet. “Well isn't that just a motherfucking miracle,” he says, “since I up and brought a pile for us to get our talk on.”

He abruptly decaptchalogues the horn pile (so THAT'S where it went), and you jump again as it emits a cacophony of ominous honking. “Twitchy little fucker, huh,” Gamzee says, snickering.

“Of course I'm twitchy, you unbelievable pan-rotted asshat, who wouldn't be after--”

Your throat closes, and you can't quite get the words out. _After you killed them._ You're unsure whether you're avoiding it because you think it will make either of you feel better, or because by not saying it, perhaps it isn't true.

“That all's up and done now. Shush, motherfucker, ain't no more killing now, it's all over.” He's come up behind you, wrapped his long, skinny arms around your waist, pulling you backwards into the pile (this time, you're ready for the honks and barely even twitch) and _OK wow this is a thing that's happening._ “Better fucking not be any more killing,” you grumble. You've been bundled up against his chest in the pile and one of his hands is running through your hair, claws gently scratching your scalp, and pity washes over you as you feel the tension in your muscles and the icy fog of shock slowly melting under his patient combing.

Melting turns out to be too accurate for comfort, as you feel the first hot tear trickle down your face. You immediately struggle, try to squirm away, _he can't know my color, fuck, this was an awful idea,_ but he just wraps the arm combing your hair back around you, holding you firm with highblood strength. “S'okay,” he murmurs, and you let the tears come, jagged sobs tearing through you with no end in sight. He holds you through it, combing your hair and rubbing up and down your back while making soft sounds.

Eventually the painful sobs die down to hiccups, then to stillness, under his patient ministrations. You turn your head, looking into his face, and you have to ask. “Why?” you squeak out, your voice tiny in the silence.

He's silent, and you watch his face scrunch up in contemplation, rusty, sopor-rotted wheels turning in his pan. “Motherfuck if I know,” he finally murmurs, voice as small as yours was. “I was so fuckin' angry... and... that motherfucking unrighteous puppet... I looked in its eyes and it all crawled into my thinkpan, filled me up with all kinds of harshwhimsy, _kill them all, kill all them motherfuckers, YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO--_ ” His voice warps into a harsh snarl and you quickly sit up, pulling him into your arms and gently papping the back of his neck. “Shoosh, easy now, shshshshhh.” Now he's the one crying, and he looks so very, very young and confused, rather than the nightmarish monster you had only just been so terrified of.

You close your eyes, burying your face in his neck. “I won't let you. Not ever again,” you swear to him, a promise to him and to everyone still breathing on this meteor. Your shirts are damp with tears and you've never felt so vulnerable, but you are determined to protect them all until your last breath, including him.

Especially him.

 


	2. Day 2 - Horns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of yesterday's fic :)  
> Squick warning for mild gross body stuff.

After Gamzee's tears taper off, you realize that climbing out of the pile at some point, rather than stewing in your own dried tears, might be a good idea. You extricate your legs from where they're pinned by one of his and grab your clown's hand to tug him up. “Come on,” you say with a sigh. He pouts petulantly. “Don't wanna,” he whines, doing an impressive dead-weight routine as you try to pull him to his feet. “We gotta get your face cleaned up, before you get a fucking infection and it rots away. Unless you want it to rot off, in which case by all means stay here and enjoy the experience of your face slowly and painfully turning into a festering mass of ooze and gunk.”

“Nasty, bro,” he responds, still pouting, but he lets you haul him to his feet.

You have a vague idea of where you are, since you're in the area only accessible by your transportalizer (or, evidently, the ventilation system). Mentally, you plot out a path to the ablutions chamber next to your block and set out, pulling Gamzee along behind you. (He doesn't let go of your hand, and when you give it a squeeze he squeezes back.)

Fortunately, your block is only a couple of minutes away. When you crack open the door to the adjacent ablutions chamber, it looks strangely familiar and reassuring in the midst of all this chaos. You settle your clown on the lid of the load gaper, and busy yourself wetting and soaping up a washcloth while he aimlessly kicks his legs. When you reach it up to his face, he squirms away. “Do we gotta take the paint off, motherfucker?” he whines, squeezing his eyes shut and scrunching his features. “Yes, numbskull, how else am I supposed to clean the cuts? How long have you had that shit on anyway—never mind, I don't want to know.” He whines again, wordless. “You can put it back on later,” you promise him, and successfully make cloth-to-face contact. His features remain pursed throughout the laborious process of wiping off the stubborn greasepaint—it takes you at least a dozen rinses of the cloth before you deem his face sufficiently clean.

The gashes look even worse with the paint off—they're partly scabbed over, but inflamed bright purple and oozing. After one last careful once-over with the washcloth (he whines as the soap makes contact with the wounds), you pull out a bottle of antiseptic and apply some of it to the cloth. “This is gonna sting like a bitch,” you inform him, before gently dabbing along the lines of the cuts. He squeaks and twists away until you wrap your spare arm around him, muttering, “Stay still, you asshole, do you want me to get this crap in your eyes? Because that's what will happen if you don't—fucking—keep—STILL!”

You would feel guiltier if the cuts didn't already look half-infected.

Finally, you finish the last gash, silently thanking whatever gods there may be that his eyelids weren't even scratched because antiseptic and eyes makes for a horrible combination (a lesson you, unfortunately, learned the hard way). “All done,” you say, much softer, dropping the cloth and running your hands through his hair.

Your thumb accidentally brushes against one of his hornbeds and he gives a surprised, chirping sigh, puckered face slackening as he slumps forwards against you. You feel a soft vibration in his throat as he leans it against your shoulder, the hint of a purr. _Oh._ You'd always thought that the whole “submission reflex” thing was a load of shit, because you'd tried it on yourself and it never worked, just felt really weird. Maybe it only works if someone else does it.

Experimentally, you brush your fingers against the hornbed again, and Gamzee's soft purr increases in volume. It's as if a wave of light sweeps through you, a dizzyingly tender mix of pride and contentment and joy, and there's a stuttering little reciprocal purr starting up in your own chest. Briefly, you're tempted to give up on cleaning him up and just nuzzle his stupid face, but instead you gently peel his head off your shoulder to squeeze out and apply some sealing paste from a medigrub. His eyes are closed, his face peaceful and smiling.

You distantly notice an ache in your cheeks as you finish dabbing away the extra paste, and Gamzee's eyes flutter open (how does he have such long eyelashes, it's adorable and goddamn unfair) to look at you, and he gives a little “heh.”

“What's so funny?”

“You're all up and smiling, bro. Ain't never seen you do that before.”

One of your hands flies up to your mouth, and sure enough, it's curved upwards. You can't remember the last time you smiled. “You should get your motherfuckin' smile on more. It's like a little tiny miracle,” he giggles, lazily reaching up. You nearly lean away, taken by surprise, but then he finds your tiny horns. Any doubts you had about the existence of said fabulous reflex are completely gone as you abruptly turn into a happy pile of mush and slump forward against him, feeling like the plug holding in all your frustration and anger and tension got pulled and it all went swirling down the trap.


	3. Day 3 - Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: "Forgive and Forget"  
> Some spoilers for the most recent updates (but even if you aren't caught up you've probably seen more than enough spoilers at this point already haha)

Your name is Karkat Vantas. You are approximately seven and a half sweeps old.

You are also dead.

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, you remember dying very clearly, sparing you the existential crisis normally foisted upon the unfortunate, new-minted denizens of dreambubbles. Although you appreciate knowing that you're dead (and permanently so, considering that your corpse has been turned into nothing more than molten slag by now) you really wish you didn't remember.

This isn't how it was supposed to end. Then again, you recognized a while ago, when the two of you broke apart, that the fairytale ending you had eked out of the shreds of your life was doomed. Paradox space has proven its personal vendetta against you too many times for you to buy into that sort of naivete for a split second, but you still did, because you're a damned romantic idiot.

Furious at yourself, you kick your foot into the sand you found yourself sitting on. Rage unspent, you kick again. After five seconds of deliberation before recognizing that there's nobody around to give a fuck, you indulge yourself in a full-blown, wiggler-level tantrum. Kicking, flailing your arms, screaming an assortment of disjointed profanities, the whole nine yards.

After a minute, you flop back onto the sand, spent, and open your pursed eyelids only to see a familiar face out of the corner of your eye.

You shriek something resembling “GHRHNAAAGRH” as you scuttle backwards on hands and feet. Gamzee makes no move, but instead tilts his head in confusion, sitting cross-legged on the sand. “Did I miss somethin'?” he asks instead, and you give up, groaning and flopping back onto the sand. You're already dead. It's not like he can do more to you.

He scoots over next to you, still with that confused look on his face. “Karbro?” he murmurs. You roll over on your side, away from him, curling into yourself. “Kaaaaaarkaaaaa--” He pokes you, light and probing, and barely manages to dodge when you roll back and lash out with your claws, snarling “DON'T TOUCH ME!”

He hunches away from you; now he's the one on the defensive. _Good_ , you think, anger bubbling up in you to burn away your fear, _he should be._

“Fuck you! Fuck you, why can't you just fucking REMEMBER? Because I do! I remember every single fucking SECOND of it! WHY CAN'T YOU? Oh right, because you're a retarded, sopor-addicted, murderous piece of shit! Fuck you, FUCK YOU, I WANT YOU TO REMEMBER HOW YOU DIED, BECAUSE I CAN REMEMBER EVERY MILLISECOND OF HOW YOU FUCKING KILLED ME!”

You've stood up, towering over him, and he's curled into himself more, with a thousand-yard stare as he tries to remember. “I... I remember you were comin' at me--”

“YOU HAD TEREZI! YOU HAD TEREZI DANGLING OVER THE EDGE OF A PIT OF LAVA AND YOU WERE FUCKING LAUGHING! WHAT THE HELL, GAMZEE!” You shove him so he topples backwards, baring your teeth. He still doesn't fight back. “D-don't hurt me--” he pleads, soft.

For a moment, you're both frozen, a standoff. Then he blinks, and suddenly his eyes are white and wide with sudden understanding. “I remember--”

You sway back, out of his space, but he doesn't make a move to uncurl. “Kanaya--” he continues, and you briefly recall passing her as you ran “--I fuckin' deserved it.”

“...Why?” you hiss, the moment feeling strangely sacred as you both stay there, frozen.

“I... Karbro, I don't think I up and been all in myself for a long time now. Been doin' things I never – I –“ His voice chokes off into a sob and he slowly raises his hands in front of his face, like he isn't used to the ability to do something so simple. “So fuckin' sorry,” he gasps, tilting forward to cling to your legs.

You don't pull away as he whimpers “Don't leave me please, don't—” and as you slowly assimilate what he said into your brain. Hasn't been himself—something or someone has been using him, stringing him along, for God knows how long, and whatever it is, it's been hurting both of you in every way imaginable.

Heartbeats pass, somehow still there even in death and the only measure of time in this wasteland of a dreamscape, and you cling back to him because you're both hurting. “I forgive you,” you whisper back, a tear dragging heat down your face (you don't reach to wipe it because that would mean letting go).

When you look up, everything looks brighter. “What the fuck?” you ask of the dreamscape, but there's no reply, only the shift as Gamzee twists his head to look around. You hold your hand up in front of your face and are briefly struck by the impression that it's melting into the light. Briefly, you wonder if the dreambubble is taking one of Lord English's blasts, if both of you are bound for oblivion in short order.

At least before it all ended you found your happy ending again.

The white light enveloping you both doesn't hurt like you expected it to, but it's overwhelmingly strange. You feel unwound, strings of memory and blood and cells pulled away layer by layer as if you're nothing but a ball of string wrapped into the shape of a troll. But the unraveling is invisible to your eyes; all you can see is the light growing brighter and brighter as both Gamzee's face and your own hand fade into it.

You close your eyes.

 

_zap_

 

Your name is Karkat Vantas. You are approximately six sweeps old. You don't have time to ponder the onslaught of deja vu that nearly makes you trip over, because you have more important matters to attend to, specifically protecting your friends, dealing with one murderhappy rampaging clown, finding some way to launch this meteor into the far reaches of the Furthest Ring, and _what the fuck, is that John and what is he doing on your meteor._


End file.
